


Day and Night

by cumpeachx, going rogue (onlyastoryteller)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-04 14:12:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18345299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumpeachx/pseuds/cumpeachx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyastoryteller/pseuds/going%20rogue
Summary: One night, while in desperate search of...well, adrink,since he can't seem to get a fucking decent role to save his life, Armie Hammer finds himself at a crossroads.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! G & L here. 
> 
> About 24 hours ago we spiraled into this world we created and now, impatient as ever, we want you all to join us.
> 
> It’s all fiction, as always. Consider this an introduction of sorts. Enjoy. :)

They say we can see the future. That’s not precisely true, because the future, like most things, is uncertain. There are paths, and fates, and destinies, but it’s really all just an outline, or a representation of possibilities. If you try to get too close and see the details, it’s like viewing an impressionist painting from close up: all colors and textures and no definition.

It’s more accurate to say that we can _understand_ the future as part of the whole of time. When I look at a human, I know his trajectory, the arc of his soul, the potential it has to intersect with the souls of others. But I can’t see the end point. Attempting to see the end of a soul arc is always sort of like chasing the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow...you know it’s there, but you can’t be sure where _there_ is, or how long it will take to reach it.

So when I saw him walk into the bar that night, I knew a few things.

But I didn’t know _everything_.

I didn’t know, for example, that I was going to place my own soul directly into the path of his.

* * *

Armie repeated the rejection in a quiet murmur of words as he walked down Wilshire Boulevard.

It was late — or maybe early, it was colder than it should be in Los Angeles for this time of year, he had a crumpled twenty in his pocket and a debit card he’d broken two nights ago, but he was determined to find somewhere that would sell him booze, even if he had to buy it off a bum behind a building.

Another audition for a mediocre role, another rejection, this one for a popular daytime soap opera. A fucking soap opera -- if only his mom could see him now. He laughed bitterly up into the night sky above him. Should have went to college, should have stayed at home, should have gone in the family business. Fuck ‘em all.

A bus screeched to a halt across the street, probably the last one of the night — maybe the first of the day, but even the shrieking of the brakes didn’t pull him from his own head, which felt like a dangerous place despite the reputation of the street he was walking down.

Armie didn’t know how long he’d been walking for. The audition ended hours ago and as soon as he’d push through the doors, another bitter rejection on his lips, he had set out with fervent determination to wash the taste from his mouth. He needed something _strong_.

Only, a mile of walking turned into two, then three, then it didn’t matter anymore. He sat at Starbucks for a few hours once the sun went down and made a few phone calls, tried to level himself out by speaking to a friendly voice, maybe take some of his frustration out on his agent, three espressos later. Nothing worked. None of it mattered, so he kept walking.

There were a lot of things he needed to give up on, he contemplated, but finding a drink wasn’t one of them — but all the liquor stores were closed, the supermarkets too. If his debit card hadn’t snapped in half then he would have booked a cheap hotel for the night just so he could raid their shitty mini bar and worry about the financial consequences later.

“This is bullshit,” Armie sighed, shoving his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone. He had a 10% battery life and knew he should call an Uber. Maybe even Nick. The entire day felt like a haze now that he’d stopped walking, his feet on the edge of the intersection of Wilshire and Westwood Blvd.

He started to dial Nick’s number from memory, too lazy to open his contacts, but he almost fell over when a bus suddenly sped by, the brakes hissing a few feet down from where he stood on the edge of the curb. His heart pumped aggressively against his ribs and he flipped off the back of the bus as if he had something to prove. He was still muttering when he lifted his phone up but suddenly his battery was completely dead, his phone screen black, the crack at the edge of the screen showing only a faint reflection of his tight knitted eyebrows.

“Bullshit,” he repeated with a sigh, his chin going back up as he cursed the night sky once more.

He straightened up after a minute, taking a cursory look around and that was when he saw it; a faint, golden glow from across the street. How had he missed it before? Right on the corner, a single door and glass pane window, a lamp hanging overhead a single panel, wooden sign out front. It was a name he couldn’t decipher, but it didn’t matter -- the neon glow from the window that read  _whiskey_  and _cold beer_  pressed against the darkened glass was all he needed to know. He crossed the sidewalk and pushed opened the door, wondering if he’d made it in time for last call, or maybe early enough for the liquor laws to allow free flowing booze once again.

“You look lost,“ the bartender smiled. "Why don't you sit down, let me pour you a drink." Armie followed his crooked smile, green eyes and brown curls all the way to the bar top.

* * *

I sensed his presence before he pushed through the door. Once his intent was formed, that was enough, and I felt my bones and muscles shifting, lengthening and contracting into a new shape. This was always a tense moment. Who would I be? Who did he need me to be, for him?

When the uncomfortable process subsided, I felt out my new housing, tilting my head back and forth on its long, graceful neck, shaking a cloud of soft dark curls out of my eyes. I stretched out my arms and rotated my hands at their tiny wrists, wiggling long, delicate fingers that were perfect but for a tiny scar on the left ring finger. I liked that. Evidence of reality on an otherwise ethereal form.

_Interesting._

The door opened, and I pasted a smile on my face as a virtual giant ducked under the doorframe and entered the small, dark room. His eyes found me immediately. Large, sad eyes that spoke of longing.

_Oh, yes. This one is definitely ready._

“You look lost,” I said. “Why don’t you sit down, let me pour you a drink.” I waved a slender hand at the stools before me.

He didn’t hesitate. His strides ate up scuffed floor as he took the most direct route across the room, even pushing a chair out of the way rather than go around it.

When he sat, the stool creaked under him. He was a large one. In my current form, I was just shy of six feet, but he was much taller. And beautiful, as humans went. Sculpted, the artists might say, with symmetrical eyes the color of the sea and a chin that might have been chiseled out of marble. A thin scruff showed on his jaw, and the shadows under his eyes were induced by stress and not lack of sleep. I could tell the difference.

“What can I get you?” I asked. “What’ll chase away your blues?”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “Who said I have the blues?” he asked, his voice rich and smooth, laced with dry amusement.

“People who walk into my bar at this time of night usually do.” I leaned an elbow on the counter, noticing the way he watched me move.

“Glenlivet. A double,” he said.

He dragged a hand — a large hand, one that could circle the wrist of my current form with ease — through his blonde hair. The movement revealed a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist, but it disappeared too quickly for me to make it out. Cyrillic, it looked like.

I grabbed a shot glass from the rack and filled it to the brim with Belvedere, and slid it across the bartop on his left side. He eyed it.

“Go ahead. Take the edge off,” I said. “On the house. While I get you the other.”

I waited until he reached out, with his left hand, to take it. Yes. Cyrillic. A single word, a household object. A weapon, if wielded correctly. A legendary object that could deem a soul _worthy_...or unworthy. Which was he?

He tossed back the shot, then set the glass back on the bar. Gently. He didn’t slam it. He was careful.

“Thank you,” he said, gesturing at the empty glass.

I nodded and gathered up a rocks glass and the requested Glenlivet.

“Hammer?” I asked.

He looked up, his forehead drawn in surprise. “Yeah?”

“Your tattoo,” I clarified.

When he blinked at me, I reached out and took his left hand, turned it palm up. His skin was smooth, cooler than I thought it would be. I let my fingers linger there a moment, and then, because he wasn’t pulling away, I traced one over the tattoo, over the ridges of his veins.

“Oh. You read Russian?” he asked.

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Me too. Sometimes.” He looked up at me again, his eyes a deeper blue than they had been a minute ago. It was the vodka. The vodka _plus_ , as it were.

He was here in the first place because he was primed. Ready. Desperate. The shot was meant to make it worse, not better. I could always tell the direction of the soul by the color of the eyes, and it was working.

“My name,” he said, as I poured the scotch.

I handed him the double (the double _plus_ ) and raised a brow in question.

“Hammer,” he said. “It’s my name.”

Ah. It was time for introductions already. I turned away under the guise of rinsing my hands in the small sink, and closed my eyes. I reached inward, through the cells of this body, searching, until I found what I was looking for.

When I turned back, I held out my right hand and smiled.

“Hello, Hammer. I’m Timothée.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoy reading this chapter even half as much as we've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> 100% fiction. Perhaps.

I don’t recall much about my time as a human. It was long ago, and time and distance tend to blur the edges of memories that were once sharp and vivid. I do, however, remember laughter. I haven’t laughed in centuries...longer, maybe. But I remember the sensation.

* * *

Armie laughed.

“No, it’s —” he reached out, extending a long, steady arm to grasp the slender hand that Timothée had presented to him. Armie’s laugh rumbled down to a soft chuckle. “Hammer’s my surname. Please, call me Armie.”

Armie hesitated to release their handshake but the drink was calling his name and despite the indescribable smoothness of Timothée’s skin, he reluctantly detached himself. He almost frowned at the cold contrast of the glass against his fingers compared to the warmth of Timothée he’d just willingly let go of.

“Cheers,” he quipped, his tongue still tingling from the sharp taste of Belvedere but the scotch was a soothing, warm welcome against his taste buds.

“Timothée,” Armie smacked his lips as he pronounced it the same way Timothée had moments ago. It was a far from perfect pronunciation, but then again, he’d never really gotten the hang of French. “It _is_ French, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is, yeah.” Timothée quirked his mouth to the side.

“And Hammer is…”

“Bullshit,” Armie threw back the whiskey, draining the glass. He placed it down gently on the counter and Timothée scooped it up before he could say thank you, so he smiled instead.

“How about another, then? And you can tell me why Hammer is ‘bullshit.’”

Armie looked into Timothée’s dark green eyes, over the splash of freckles against his cheeks, his stomach tightening and releasing all at once. In his entire life, Armie was sure he had never seen anyone that looked like Timothée.

And yet…

It was like when you see someone you know, someone you’ve known for years even, but for a split second they’re unrecognizable because your mind is miles away or maybe they have a new haircut, maybe you looked too quickly and you’ll have to look again, but _it is them_ just slightly altered until your brain makes the connection. Only with Timothée it had been the opposite.

Armie had walked in the bar, entranced, determined to get to the bar top and by the time he sat down he had almost forgotten he wanted a drink at all; he was _certain_ he recognized Timmy, was absolutely positive, if just for the fifteen seconds it took to cross the bar, that he knew the man on the other side of the counter.

Then in a blink the familiarity was gone. Armie knew he would have remembered that voice, knew he could never forget the green of his eyes, or the soft blanket of freckles splayed over the bridge of his nose, visible even in the shitty lighting of this beat down bar.

Armie leaned back but only once he realized he’d leaned _in_ , blinking away the rush of thoughts that had flooded his mind moments ago. He pulled his phone from his pocket, sighing when he remembered the battery was dead. He looked around the bar, but couldn’t find a clock or even an old television that might have shown the time.

“Maybe I shouldn’t. What time is it? If you’re closing up, I’d hate to keep you.”

“Keep talking. Does it look like I have anywhere I’d rather be?”

* * *

When Armie unconsciously leaned in, his body shifting towards mine as though drawn by a magnet, I knew the game was well and truly in play.

His movement was so natural I could tell he hadn’t realized he had done it, because when he did realize, he pulled back again, and gave me a look, the kind that says _maybe I walked into the wrong place and have misread all the signals_. He had, of course, but I didn’t want him to think that. He might walk away. It was always in his power to do so. And while I was beginning to want to get a good look at his back angle, it was too early for that.

On the other hand, in his newly self-conscious state, _he_ was suddenly concerned it was too late. He needn’t have been. Time moved as I wanted it to, in here.

I leaned against the bar, propping my elbows on the scarred surface and resting my chin in my hands. I smiled, letting it creep across my face slowly, my expanding cheeks pushing gently at my fingers. I let just a hint of my teeth show. Only a hint, before closing my lips again.

I wanted him to need to _work_ to see them, to see more.

“Keep talking,” I said, dropping the volume of my voice a bit, so that he would feel like he needed to move closer still. “Does it look like I have anywhere I’d rather be?”

His eyes were fastened on my mouth, and I let my tongue through, just barely, to skim across my bottom lip. He inhaled.

I let him watch me another moment, and then I reached out and rested two fingers on his forearm. The contact seemed to jolt him back into the present. He huffed out a laugh, and shook his head.

I took the opportunity of the break in the moment to poor him another drink and set it in front of him.

He looked at it and sighed, then dug into his pocket. He slid a crumpled twenty to me. “This is all I have,” he said. “I’m not sure I can afford another.”

Silently, I pulled another rocks glass from under the counter and poured myself a drink. “Now you’re not a paying customer,” I said. “Think of it like having drinks with a friend.”

I held up my glass, and after a moment’s hesitation, he raised his and tapped it against mine. While he had tossed the last one back, this time he sipped. That was a good sign. He wanted to make it — and, hopefully, this conversation — last.

“So…” I prompted, “Hammer is bullshit?”

* * *

Armie hesitated for only a moment; just a millisecond of concern until Timothée’s smile melted away any doubt in the depths of his mind. Having a drink with a friend was exactly what he needed.

He tapped their glasses together and as soon as the liquor burned his tongue, it was as if he had lost control of the muscle all together. Armie was surprised at how willingly he confessed to Timothée all the things he hadn’t told even his closest of friends and yet… it was like scratching an itch you hadn’t been able to reach until you stretched _just so._ Now he couldn’t stop, nor did he want to.

“Would you believe me if I said I can tell that you’re talented?” Timothée hummed curiously as he took another sip from his glass. Armie had realized a few minutes ago, while explaining how his family had all but disowned him, that every time he took a sip, Timothée would do the same. It made him feel an odd sense of control over their conversation, over Timothée. He liked it, though he wasn’t sure what that said about him.

“Of course not,” Armie chuckled, tilting his head against his shoulder. “You don’t know me, you’ve never seen me act. How would you know whether I’ve ‘got it’ or not?” He exhaled through his nose and wondered if Timothée was just buttering him up, but then again, he was a total stranger. What did he have to gain from complimenting him?

Timothée straightened up and Armie realized he already missed the closeness of having the brunette leaning towards him on the bar. Armie sat up straight as well, following his lead, this time.

“Anyone who is as passionate as you are knows they’ve ‘got it,’” Timothée spoke seriously, almost as if he was offended but something in the corners of his eyes caught Armie off guard. “I can tell you’ll never give up on yourself and you shouldn’t. You should do whatever it takes to make your dreams come true, Hammer.”

“Call me Armie.”

Timothée rolled his eyes and a grin curled over his mouth, up to the corners, almost to the edge of his sharp nose. He leaned forward very quickly and Armie was frozen by the sudden movement. He felt a soft, warm hand against his cheek.

“I mean it, _Hammer_.”

* * *

I had forgotten myself for a split second and moved too quickly. It was the expression on his face and the way his muscles tensed that brought me back.

 _Stupid, amateur, reckless._ I knew better. Had been practicing moving at human speed for hundreds of years, maybe longer. Too long to slip up because of a pair of blue eyes framed by impossibly long lashes. Too long to let a sudden desire to touch the prickly five o’clock shadow on his jaw overcome my impulse control.

The bottom-feeders who scavenged for souls amongst those who were already a mere whisper from death were the ones who had trouble keeping their true selves in check. The professionals, like myself, we were legendary for our control.

I chalked it up to exhaustion, a busy, unusual night, a record year. It was one tiny slip.

There wouldn’t be another.

“I mean it, _Hammer_ ,” I purred, sliding my palm an inch lower, trailing my fingers along the soft flesh of his earlobe. He shivered. I smiled, showing my teeth for real this time. He had earned it.

“Mean — mean what?” Armie asked. He licked his lips.

“That you should do whatever it takes. The world deserves to see the light inside you. _You_ deserve to be recognized for your passion and talent.” I let my hand slide down his neck so that my fingers could play in the soft hair at his nape. I gazed, unblinking, into his eyes. “Don’t you agree?”

“I…” Armie cleared his throat, blinked rapidly. “Yeah. I was wondering tonight if I should just give up. If it wasn’t meant to be. But...fuck that. I don’t think I can let it go.”

“You can’t,” I said. “Because it’s who you are.”

“It _is_ who I am. Who I’ve always wanted to be. If I’m not this...then I don’t know what the fuck I would be.”

“So…” I pulled my hand away, but left my face close to his — a little too close for a stranger, but at this point he wouldn’t feel like we were strangers — “what will it take? What would you do to make it happen?”

* * *

Armie took another drag from his glass, watching and waiting until Timothée did exactly the same thing. He hummed in satisfaction once he did. Armie swiped his tongue over his teeth, sucking back some of the residual smoky flavor.

“What _haven’t_ I done?” he spat bitterly, thinking back on all the shitty roles he’d taken; the embarrassing commercials, the hits against his pride when he was cast as _Abercrombie boy_ for the second time in a row — his only repeat character.

Timothée shook his head, his tone deep and direct. “That’s not what I asked, Hammer.”

Their eyes met in a moment of almost dead silence, the only sound was his liquored blood pumping against his ear drums, making him hot, sweaty, uncomfortable. Timothée’s intense gaze didn’t help, or maybe it did, because he still wanted to answer him.

“How far would you be willing to go to get the role of your dreams?”

Armie looked at Timothée like he’d just discovered the answer to the universe, as if he’d seen the light, as if suddenly everything made sense. He stood up from the stool and leaned in, so close he thought he could smell the whiskey on Timothée’s breath. Timothée watched him with unabashed scrutiny, urging him on with wordless persistence.

“What _wouldn’t_ I do? I’ve made a complete fucking fool of myself for _years_ and I have nothing to show for it. My family hate me - no - I hate them. I have a shitty apartment, a car that doesn’t make it twenty miles, even on a good day… and really, none of that matters. All I’ve ever wanted to do was act and people look at me, and they just see this,” Armie motioned over his face, his brows pulled tight, the accumulation of disappointment finally too much. He knew his eyes were watering but he couldn’t look away from Timothée long enough to wipe at them to make sure he didn’t embarrass himself.

“I just need one shot, one role, something _real_  so that I can fill this gaping hole in my chest and then fuck everything else. Even if it was just one role, I wouldn’t care. Just one...I’d do anything…”

Armie had the feeling he’d said something right, or maybe terribly wrong, but suddenly Timothée perked up and raised a long eyebrow at him.

“What if I told you that you don’t have to do _anything_ — just a little...something.”

* * *

I could feel Armie’s desperation rolling off of him in bitter waves. It crackled through the air between us, and I breathed it in, letting it energize me. We were nearly there. He just needed one final push.

A nudge, really.

“What are you talking about?” His brows drew together slightly, then evened out. He was confused, but accepting of the confusion, willing to listen. _Perfect._

“You said you’d do anything,” I said. “But you don’t have to. It’s much easier than that. You just need to let go of something that you don’t even really need. A trifle. You won’t miss it.”

He swallowed. Glanced around the bar, seeming to notice, for the first time, that we were alone. We didn’t have to be — I could have created the appearance of other people — but my read on him was that he didn’t need the façade. And perhaps, by the look on his face and the way he relaxed slightly, he preferred the privacy.

“Hey,” he said, peering at me, “are you...do you have a connection to the studios or something?”

I leaned on the bar again, and then looked down, letting my curls fall into my eyes. “I’m no one of consequence,” I said. “Sleeping with me won’t get you a role.”

“I wasn’t going to — I wouldn’t have —“ He shook his head, raised his palms outward.

“Yes, you would,” I said. I looked up at him through the curls. “Anything, remember? Unless it’s that...you aren’t interested.”

I imagined what I must have looked like to him. A long, lithe body curved in his direction, luminous green eyes, skin that was almost glowing...I sank my teeth into my lower lip, deepening its deep pink color.

He tucked a finger under my chin and tugged until I tilted my head upwards. With his other hand, he gently pushed the curls out of the way. The look on his face momentarily disarmed me — open, generous, reassuring.

This man was a caretaker. How endearing, that he would seek to take care of my feelings.

“I’m interested,” said Armie. “And not because I think it will get me anywhere.”

I surged across the counter towards him and then I paused, so close that when I spoke, it would be impossible to tell if the light movement he felt was my lips brushing his or merely small puffs of my breath.

“Armie,” I whispered. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” he murmured. He shifted closer and I moved back, not letting him close the distance.

“Not...yet.” I breathed through his parted lips and into his mouth, relishing the idea of our life forces mixing and swirling together.

“No?” He sounded...amused. I was amusing him. _Good._

“No. There’s something I want from you first.” I gripped his chin between my thumb and forefinger, and pushed him back. He stumbled slightly, the stool scraping against the floor as he knocked into it.

Something darker than amusement flashed in his eyes.

_Even better._

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

It was time.

I moved from behind the bar. He watched, his eyes traveling down to watch my hips and the way my feet danced across the floor, until I was standing directly in front of him. I placed a hand on his chest, let the other sneak around his waist to rest — lightly, for now — on the small of his back. Automatically, he placed his hands on my hips, and I let myself enjoy the warm pressure for a moment.

“It’s really more that I want to make a small trade,” I said. “There’s something you want, and I can get it for you.”

“But how—“

“Shhh.” I placed a finger on his lips and then returned my hand to his chest when he stopped talking. “There’s something you have, and don’t really need, that I’d love to take off your hands.”

Armie just blinked at me, still obeying the mild command for silence.

“Let me ask you this: would you rather live a long, uneventful life in which you try and fail, try and fail, try and fail some more, and never amount to anything? Or would you rather have everything you ever dreamed of, and die a legend, leaving a legacy that will be talked about for centuries to come?”

“The second,” said Armie. His eyes were locked on mine.

“Good,” I said. “Wise choice. I can give you that. I can give you _ten years_ of incredible success. The thing is, Hammer, you don’t need talent. You’ve got that. You need _opportunities_ to prove your talent.”

Armie nodded. “Yes,” he said. He squeezed my hips.  “I just need people to fucking give me a chance. To see past my face, to stop thinking of me as scenery.”

“And in exchange…” I shifted closer, until our thighs were brushing. “All you’d have to do is agree that, in ten years, you belong to me.”

“To...you?” I could practically hear Armie’s mouth go dry.

“To me,” I said. “In ten years, I get your soul.”

The silence was loud, filling the space around us with a thickness. I waited, holding my breath. This was always the trickiest part. Had I moved too soon? Should I have waited for him to finish another drink? Spent more time talking?

Finally, he spoke. “My soul?” he asked. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, as though he didn’t quite believe this was anything but a game.

“Yes,” I whispered. I flexed the hand on his chest, drawing his soul towards me — just barely. He gasped. It wouldn’t have been painful, but would have felt like a momentary disconnect. A static between his body and his self. “It’s in there,” I said. “But don’t worry. You get to keep it for now and enjoy these ten years of success, of fame. Of pride in your work. You get your wildest dreams. A star on Hollywood Boulevard. An Oscar. More than one, if you want it.”

“And after ten years?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “I come to collect. You get to see me again. And we enjoy eternity together.”

That wasn’t a lie, not really. I _would_ enjoy it.

He looked unsure, lines forming at the corners of his eyes, on his forehead. I reached up and smoothed them away.

“Or you could walk out that door and go right back to what you were doing before you came in here. What was that? Oh, yes. Wandering blindly in a state of self-loathing, on the brink of giving up on your dreams, and searching desperately for total oblivion.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay? You’ll make the trade?” I released him and stepped back. When he said it, when he agreed to the deal, he had to be completely of his own will, or else it was invalid.

“Can I make a request?”

I grinned at that. I liked him, this little giant with the sad eyes and the warm hands and the urge to take care of strangers.

“A negotiation,” I chuckled. “Go ahead.”

“I don’t want to remember the deal. I don’t want to know that...this happened.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I know myself, and if I’m aware that I only have ten years...so can you do that? I mean, you’re not — I know you’re not human.”

“No, I'm not,” I said. “You don’t seem shocked by that revelation.”

It was true. Usually they protested a bit more before agreeing, asked more questions.

He half-smiled. “I should have known you weren’t human when I saw you. _Look_ at you. Humans don’t look like _that._ ”

“You’d be surprised,” I murmured. “And thank you for that compliment.”

“So can you?” he asked. “Make me forget?”

I nodded. “I can. You won’t remember this conversation until the moment I come to collect your soul. You’ll live the next ten years blissfully unaware that your time is limited, able to fully enjoy all the rewards you will receive. And as a bonus...no harm shall come to you during those ten years. You’ll be invincible. I protect my investments.”

“Then...okay,” said Armie. He nodded once, firmly.

“Okay what? I need you to say it, explicitly.” I locked eyes with him, and he leaned in slightly. That unconscious movement, the magnet in operation once again.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel it, too.

“I will agree to give you my soul in ten years, in exchange for the opportunities I need to be a success. As long as I don’t remember I made this deal.”

I was proud of him. He had drawn himself up to his full height as he spoke, his voice clear and true. He wasn’t backing into this, trembling and cowering. He was making a _choice_.

It was beautiful.

“Then we have a deal,” I said.

He took a deep breath, let it out. “Now what?” he asked.

“Now…” I smiled and moved toward him, my fingertips itching to touch this beautiful creature again, even just for a moment. “Now, we seal the bargain.”

* * *

Armie’s eyes immediately pulled towards Timothée’s mouth, which was curved in an alluring twist. Armie didn’t know if a kiss would seal his fate, but his lips parted on their own accord, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip in anticipation. He didn’t question it, he wanted it, regardless.

“And how do we do that?” Armie asked, a playful attempt at feigning ignorance. Timothée laughed and Armie wondered if it was too late to renegotiate. He wanted to remember that laugh for the rest of his life — all ten years he had remaining.

“I do like you, Hammer. I’ll look forward to when we next cross paths.”

Armie closed the distance between them before he could suck in his next breath. As he felt Timothée’s thin, long arm drape over his shoulder and a warm palm press firmly against the back of his neck, fingers gripping into his skin, he wondered, only briefly, if this was really worth it. Was giving up a potentially long life really worth the sacrifice? Was acting, successfully acting, really this important to him?

Armie thought back to his childhood, running around and getting into trouble and how he’d always been told he was too loud, too boisterous, that his head was too far in the clouds. What did he have to lose? He could wake up a week from now and get hit by a car and have nothing to show for his life… so wasn’t what Timothée was offering him something that most people never get? Confirmation of at least ten years of happiness, making his dreams come true, living the life he’d always wanted...

Timothée’s hand tugged at the hair against the nape of his neck, pulling his attention completely over as his lips slipped perfectly into his still parted ones, his tongue licking over damp bottom lip, mixing their tastes, momentarily becoming one.

Armie couldn’t control himself, knowing that this would be his one and only time to be with Timothée, whoever he was — whatever he was, and he wanted to take advantage of the moment while he had it, before his life would be forever changed.

Their mouths moved as one, mirrored lips pressing together, their tongues licking into and against one another in languid, slow passion. Armie suddenly realized his biggest mistake tonight wasn’t bargaining his soul, giving up who knows how many years he might have had to live, but that he’d given up along with it, the memory of Timothée.

Suddenly, he found himself desperately trying to memorize everything he could about the kiss; the curve of Timothée’s upper lip, the fullness of the bottom, the sweetness of his mouth, and the sharp bite of his teeth when they clacked against his own. Armie didn’t know where the breathy sighs were emanating from but the warmth it spread over his mouth, up into his nostrils, felt like a safe haven, somewhere he never wanted to leave.

Armie felt the air around him buzzing, like there was static against his skin, as if there was something pushing and pulling against every bone in his body — or maybe he was just imagining it; the strange sensations in his body, the warm mouth against his own, the whimpers and sighs that were indistinguishable from his own.

Perhaps none of it was real.

Maybe somewhere along Wilshire Boulevard he’d lost his mind, maybe he’d fallen down and was knocked unconscious, laying cold in the gutter, or possibly even bought a joint that was laced with something too strong….

And suddenly, as if the mere thought of the gritty streets of LA had heard his thoughts, the cool crisp air of early morning — or was it still night — filled Armie’s nostrils. His eyes, which he hadn’t even realized he’d closed, fluttered open and he stared out at the large, empty street.

At least, he thought it was empty until a bus came screeching by, the brakes hissing and pulling him from out of his daze. What the hell was he still doing out here, anyway? None of these places were going to sell him booze and Armie realized he just needed to get the fuck home and get some goddamn rest. He looked over his shoulder and eyed the beat up old ATM that was behind him warily, wondering why he had crossed the street in the first place.

With a sigh, he pulled his phone from his pocket and frowned when he saw it was at full charge. That seemed unlikely, considering he hadn’t charged it all day and, wasn’t it just at 10% the last time he checked? Or? He shook his head, it didn’t fucking matter. Nothing did.

An Uber picked him up fifteen minutes later and by the time he stumbled into his dark apartment, over to his bed, he’d barely managed to kick off his shoes before his face hit the sheets. He didn’t have the energy to remove anything else.

Armie woke up with a groan, his phone buzzing incessantly on his nightstand. How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? Days? It was dark out but the crisp scent of cold air that was flowing from his bedroom window that he never closed told him that morning was just a few minutes away. Who the fuck was calling him this early?

“Hello?” Armie answered, his voice rough and groggy. He didn’t recognize the number but a familiar voice came through. His agent was on a trip in New York, a few hours ahead, but he hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon after their heated conversation yesterday. It was yesterday, wasn’t it?

“Armie — I need you packed and on your way to LAX within the next two hours.”

“What, why?” Armie sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His room was unusually dark, even with the blinds pulled open. He tried to blink away the blurriness that clouded his vision.

“You have a meeting tonight with Luca Guadagnino. Your flight leaves in four hours. Get your ass ready, now.”

“Are you serious?” Armie’s entire face lit up but he felt paralyzed with confusion and happiness. Luca fucking Guadagnino. “Shit. Thank you, fuck. I can’t believe it. How did you make this happen?”

Armie’s agent chuckled. “This is all you, Armie. He called me. It’s your time to shine.”

It was happening, finally. Armie had been on the edge, ready to call his parents, ready to give up… but this was a sign. He could feel it in the depths of his soul that things were about to change. His blood fizzled with optimism and the smile that spread across his face made his cheeks ache.

“About fucking time.”

* * *

I was drifting in the shadows when the call came in. I don’t have an explanation as to precisely why. I could count in single digits the number of times in all my years collecting souls that I had checked up on one immediately after the deal was struck.

That’s a lie. I have never checked on a soul so soon.

I do, on occasion, drop in on those of interest, check their progress and monitor their intentions. Some souls are more valuable than others and are in danger of being poached. Others will attempt to wiggle out of the agreement; I can’t allow that. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, after all.

So why was I hovering in the blackest part of this human’s night space, watching him sleep, watching him wake in a fog of disorientation, watching his features brighten and hearing his voice take on a new vibrancy and hopefulness when he heard the news?

I don’t know.

Maybe it was the similarity between his soul and its housing, a unity of spiritual and physical, like I had only seen once before.

Or maybe it was because this was the first time that a kiss with a human had made me feel so...had made me _feel_ , period.

I hadn’t been expecting that. Why would I? Kissing could be pleasant, an amusement, if the attraction is there. It isn’t a required part of the deal, to kiss like we did. A simple handshake will do, since the intent is what truly matters.

But Armie wanted  — no, needed — to kiss me. Needed it like the parched earth needs a raindrop, cracking and shrinking and withering until it drank in what it craved. And since I was feeling a similar magnetic compulsion, I obliged.

Perhaps...perhaps it was the form his soul had chosen for me. I was in a human form, one that appealed to him, and I was picking up on the feelings it might have, had it been real.

That still didn’t explain why, having shed that human casing, I was here, hours later, watching him scrub his hands over his face, push himself off of the bed, shed his clothing like a trail of breadcrumbs across the floor on his way to the bathroom.

No matter. The day was approaching, which meant it was time to make my departure. I’m not at my best in daylight.

I took one last look at my newest prize — such a grand one at that — and stole out through the shadows just as the sky began to lighten.

More lies, by the way. I do know why I was there.

You see, I don’t recall much about my time as a human. It was long ago, and time and distance tend to blur the edges of memories that were once sharp and vivid.

I do, however, remember longing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're onlyastoryteller and cumpeachx on Tumblr if you need to throw things at us.

**Author's Note:**

> We're cumpeachx and onlyastoryteller on Tumblr. ;)


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